


Taste of Your Own Medicine

by minefromcloud9



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Bruce doesn't show up in person but his presence is felt regardless, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Girlfriends who punish trespassers together.... stay together, Panties, Tentacle Sex, Verbal Humiliation, plant tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 18:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30076485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minefromcloud9/pseuds/minefromcloud9
Summary: The Scarecrow tries to steal a plant from Poison Ivy's lair. It doesn't work out exactly as planned.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane/Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane/Pamela Isley, Jonathan Crane/Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 14





	Taste of Your Own Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Songs I listened to while writing this:  
> Psychosexual, WRENN (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PnkE11WK2Nk)  
> Such a Whore, JVLA (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fFOtGETlrU)

“What I don’t get is why you thought this would work,” Ivy said, rubbing her chin in contemplation. “My security system is the most evolved in the business, and you’re not exactly Catwoman.”

Jonathan scowled. He’d given up struggling against the vines holding him in place about five minutes ago. He’d seen Poison Ivy use this particular genus to pull entire buildings from their foundations. His lackluster muscles probably weren’t going to overpower them.

“Aw, he thought he was being sneaky,” Harley cooed. She was sitting on a branch above Ivy’s head, staring down at Jonathan like he was a particularly adorable lab specimen. “It’s okay Dr. Crane, I’m sure you would have totally gotten past a security system that needs to see trespassers instead of just feel their vibrations.”

“Harley!” Ivy snapped, glaring up at her companion.

“What?” Harley asked, laying back against the trunk of the tree. “He’s not stupid, I’m sure he’d have figured it out once he had time to think about it. Bats sure did.”

Ivy scowled. Jonathan felt the vines around his wrists and ankles tighten uncomfortably in reaction. “That flying vermin,” she muttered, glancing up at the roof of her greenhouse reflexively.

“Hey, wait!” Harley said, sitting back up. “If you don’t want him to know how your security works, does that mean you’re not going to kill him?”

She looked hopeful. Ivy’s face softened as she looked up at the woman whose legs were swinging back and forth above her.

“Of course not,” Ivy said. “I know he’s one of your favorites, Harls. Besides,” she said, eyes narrowing as she turned back to Jonathan, “it sets a poor precedent to kill a colleague over an attempted robbery.”

“True,” Harley agreed, nodding seriously. “I steal towels from the Iceberg Lounge bathrooms all the time. What if Ozzie decided to kill me over _that?”_

Ivy shrugged. “I imagine he’d have a lot more towels.” 

Harley scoffed, dropping to the ground next to Ivy. “Leave the jokes to the professionals, Red. Don’t you have a Scarecrow to teach a lesson?”

“Ah, yes,” Ivy said, turning back to the task at hand. “Well, Crane? Why don’t you tell me what you were here to steal, and then I’ll decide exactly how badly I’m going to hurt you.”

A spike of fear ran down Jonathan’s spine. Ivy rarely made idle threats. He considered lying to her, but if she decided to use her spores on him later, he would doubtlessly end up spilling the truth anyway. And he doubted that the punishment for lying would be much more pleasant than the punishment for stealing.

“Your strain of Ololiuqui,” Jonathan admitted. “I saw the effect it had when you used it in your attack on GothCorp last September. It would reach chemical perfection as an additive for my toxin.”

Ivy raised a blood red eyebrow. “Implying it hadn’t already as a part of my spore cocktail?”

Jonathan frowned. This seemed like a trick question.

“That’s a yes,” Harley cackled. “What’s the matter, Doc? Not a fan of mold-based aphrodisiacs?”

“I... have nothing but respect for your intellectual pursuits, Dr. Isley,” Jonathan said, as carefully as possible given the vine that was lazily winding its way around his throat.

Ivy blinked. “Oh my God,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically stunned. “You actually don’t.”

“I—” Jonathan started, but was cut off by a sharp constriction around his neck.

“Don’t lie to me,” Ivy commanded. Roots emerged from the soil beneath her feet, raising her up until she was looking down at him from several feet above. “You really think your experiments are superior to mine, Crane?”

The vine around his throat loosened. “I don’t think I’ve been particularly shy about my appreciation for fear,” Jonathan said, voice slightly hoarse. “Your focus on base bodily functions is... useful, I’m sure.” He twitched, uncomfortable. “But the nightmares my toxin creates are _transcendent.”_

Ivy didn’t look impressed. “I suppose you would know,” she snapped. “Given how often Batman uses your own toxin against you.”

Harley giggled. “Whenever he’s not using it on himself,” she said, swinging playfully around the roots elevating her girlfriend. “No judgement, Doc. Mr. J and I used to get high on our laughing gas supply _aaaaall_ the time.”

Jonathan hoped that would be Harley’s last mention of Joker for the evening, because the reference to her old flame had clearly darkened Ivy’s mood even more. 

“Such base behavior,” Ivy said, tilting her head with a cruel look in her eye. “Is that what you enjoy? Tasting your own medicine?”

The implied filth of her tone had him flushing beneath his mask. “There’s nothing wrong with appreciating one’s life’s work,” he said, a little too quickly to sound unaffected. “My toxin is art. It isn’t... _base..._ to experience it for myself.”

Ivy laughed, snapping her fingers. The gesture was just for show; plant tendrils had already started creeping up beneath the burlap of his mask before the motion. They ripped the fabric apart, baring Jonathan’s face to the air. He was even redder now, despite his best efforts to the contrary. Jonathan always preferred to keep his face covered, but in this context having his true features perceived was even more mortifying.

“Repressed much?” Harley asked, catching the torn mask as it fell. She grinned, glancing up at his flushed face. “Just like your granny, huh Johnny? I didn’t know prudishness was inheritable.”

Jonathan went cold at the mention of his great-grandmother. His fury, at least, dissipated the heat in his cheeks. Harley rarely reminded her fellow rogues just how much access she’d had to their Arkham files, but when she did she always went for the kill.

“Then again, I know your mom was a total slut,” Harley said casually, leaning back against Ivy’s roots. “So maybe repression can skip a few generations.”

“You can stop the idiotic prattle, child,” he snarled, glaring down at his former psychiatrist. “You will find few men less inclined to care about their mother’s honor than I.”

Ivy clucked her tongue, the sound mockingly sympathetic. “Poor Johnny,” she said, pulling a loose straw from his ungroomed brown hair. “That’s right, you never got to know mommy dearest, did you? A whole childhood with no one but Granny Dick-Vice.” She shook her head. “No wonder you’re so unappreciative of my work.”

“It’s not ‘unappreciative’ to prefer my own,” Jonathan said stiffly. “But believe me, Doctor, I will never again attempt to improve mine by utilizing yours. Release me and I promise not to darken your doorway ever again.”

“You know, I might actually believe that,” Ivy mused. “But I can’t just let you _leave._ Some of us have reputations to maintain.” She smirked. “Though I can see why you wouldn’t bother.”

Harley snickered. “When do you think he gave up?” she asked. “After the first time Bats dragged him back to Arkham all whimpering quivers? Or the tenth?”

“He’s very plucky for a man made out of straw,” Ivy said. “I’m sure it was at least the fifteenth.”

Jonathan scoffed, resisting the urge to twitch against his restraints. “You think I’m ashamed of that?” he asked, glaring straight ahead. “A display of the efficacy of my formula?”

“Yes,” Ivy said, leaning forward with a sick smile. “Although I imagine you get quite a bit of enjoyment out of it, too. Tell me, what’s more pleasurable? Dosing yourself, or getting dosed by the Bat?”

“Wrong question, Red,” Harley said before Jonathan could respond. “The _real_ question is whether he _pretends_ it’s the bat when he’s dosing himself.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Ivy said, looking contemplative. “That is the better question. Crane?”

That was too much. He didn’t bother replying, just spat in Ivy’s face.

A vine reached up to flick the spot of spittle off of her cheek. “Well,” she said, sounding more amused than outraged. “Looks like we struck a nerve, Harls.” 

“You strike nothing,” he hissed. “You thrash out like children. It’s almost embarrassing how desperate you are to prove yourselves to each other.”

“Aw,” Harley said, laughing. “Are we reminding you of anyone, Johnny?” She batted her eyes. “Maybe all those ‘big, handsome jocks’ from high school?”

“Hardly,” he spat. “Adolescent boys are remarkably insecure, but even they can’t compare to the yawning cavern of self-doubt that is Harleen Quinzel. How small must you feel, to attach yourself so quickly to anyone powerful who deigns to notice you. Joker, Pamela, Deadshot— don’t you think you’d feel like slightly less of a nobody by now, if your carnal associations were enough to make you important?”

Harley’s mouth snapped shut as she stepped backwards. The look of betrayal in her eyes suggested that she had thought this was just a game. Had she really thought he wouldn’t take this personally? He was disgusted by the sliver of guilt he felt, staring down at the younger psychologist. His pity made him even angrier, and he turned to Ivy.

“And you,” he spat, “so desperate for her parasitic affection. I don’t know what’s more demeaning. That you live in fear of her leaving you for a _clown_ who barely knows that she exists, or that you’re too socially impaired for her to want you over him in the first place?” 

Ivy sputtered, causing Jonathan to let out a laugh. “You accuse me of being unappreciative of your work, but what good has it done for you?” he asked. “Do you really see yourself as the master of seduction, Dr. Isley, when you can’t even stop the woman you’re obsessed with from leaving you? For a man whose face could stop a clock, no less.”

She was definitely going to kill him now, but the look of unmitigated horror on her face had been worth it. Not the worst final monologue. He’d always had a passing concern that he’d die under the effects of his toxin, making his last words the same incoherent mess as the rambles of his victims. But from the look on Ivy’s face, that wasn’t going to be an issue. 

The vines holding Jonathan aloft unraveled unexpectedly, dropping him to the ground below with a thud. Ivy stepped off her perch with the delicacy of a dancer, landing directly on Jonathan’s stomach. She leaned down over him, green eyes glaring murder as he gasped for breath.

“I would never,” Ivy said, _“ever,_ use my work on Harley, you _worthless_ sack of shit!” She backhanded him across the face, hard enough to sting worse than the fall. 

She took a deep breath, leaning backwards over her heels. Behind her, Harley looked conflicted as to whether it would be better to comfort her girlfriend or give her space to regain her pride.

“But you know what?” Ivy asked, raising her hand to accept the winding embrace of one of her vines. “I think I’m done extending you that courtesy.”

She levelled her gaze on a bloom at the end of the green tendril, watching carefully as it blossomed before her eyes. Soft purple petals expanded and grew, each coated in a sickly yellow pollen. Jonathan was close enough that he could smell it, an aroma halfway between honey and lilacs.

Without warning, Ivy exhaled into the flower, blowing the pollen directly into Jonathan’s face. He tried closing his mouth to hold his breath, but Ivy punched him vindictively in the stomach. He choked, coughed, and swallowed. 

“That’s a good boy,” Ivy cooed, nails raking down the side of his face in a cruel mockery of affection. “Feeling less cranky now?”

Jonathan sneezed, head dizzy. “I...”

He frowned. He’d been under Ivy’s pheromone spores before: half of Arkham had, at one time or another. But he wasn’t feeling the usual rush of obsessive love towards Ivy herself. In fact, he hated her just as much as he had five minutes ago. He just felt... warm.

Ivy laughed as he squirmed beneath her, sweat starting to dot his brow. “What was it you were saying about repression, Harls? Sometimes it skips a few generations?”

“I did say that,” Harley agreed, her grin returning. She skipped over to Ivy’s side, offering the redhead her hand. Ivy took it, smiling gratefully as her companion helped her to her feet. “You want to test that theory, Red?”

“I’ll confess to a certain curiosity,” Ivy said, fixing Jonathan with a vicious glare. 

Free from restraint for the first time since he’d been caught, Jonathan attempted to scramble to his feet. But he moved slowly, less coordinated than he was accustomed to, and Harley easily caught him in the chest with a roundhouse kick.

“Who do you think you take after, Johnny?” Harley asked, pinning him in place with her foot. “Granny the puritan, or Mommy the slut?”

Jonathan inhaled at her words, though he wasn’t sure why. She smirked, putting more pressure on his stomach. His hips twitched at the added weight.

“That pollen’s working fast,” Ivy observed, making a circular gesture with her wrist. Harley stepped off of Jonathan as vines once again wrapped around his legs. “You must be pretty pent up, Crane.”

“I’m not—” he tried to answer, but he was cut off by the vines yanking him into the air, dangling him upside down over the women’s heads.

“He might have been worked up already,” Harley noted, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I mean, you were sitting on him a second ago. Maybe he likes being slapped.”

“Let’s see _how_ affected he is,” Ivy decided, “and then we’ll estimate how _long_ he’s been affected.”

“Ha!” Harley snorted, then covered her mouth with a gloved hand. _“Long,”_ she giggled, the sound muffled under the fabric.

Ivy rolled her eyes, making a short tugging gesture with her middle and index fingers. Immediately, Jonathan could feel vines tugging on the end of his leggings, dragging the material over his sock-like fabric shoes. 

He grabbed for the waist of his tights, trying to keep them over his legs. But the vines pulled harder, tearing the fabric and ripping away everything up to Jonathan’s knees. He quickly gave up on the tug of war, instead choosing to pull the skirt of his tunic over his upper thighs.

“Aww,” Ivy said, watching with amusement as her plant tore away what was left off Jonathan’s leggings. “Such the blushing schoolgirl. Worried about perverts looking up your skirt, sweetheart?”

“I mean, that’s a fair concern,” Harley said, folding her arms behind her back. “I always wear shorts under my skirts for just that reason. I do a lot of back flips.”

“Yes, but people _want_ to see under your skirt, Harls,” Ivy explained patiently. “You have the ass of an Olympian. Crane’s is practically conclave.”

Jonathan kicked furiously, knuckles white with how tightly he was gripping the edge of his tunic. He had a brief hope that Ivy would continue to allow his skirt to resist gravity, as no tendrils came to force the fabric back down over his hips. Instead, the vines holding his legs pulled him up higher... and higher, and higher, until his feet were touching the roof of the enormous greenhouse. He couldn’t even see his captors anymore, hidden as they were below the leafy brush of the treetops.

And then he was dropped.

Jonathan screamed, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He let go of his tunic, scrambling to grab a branch or a vine, anything that would break his fall.

And then, just as suddenly as he had been released, he was caught. Tendrils wrapped around his feet, breaking his fall barely an inch from the ground. The tips of his hair brushed the soil in front of Ivy’s feet. He blinked. If his eyes were at foot level for Harley and Ivy, then that meant that _their_ eyes were at his...

“Oh my God,” Harley said. He couldn’t see her facial expression, but her voice sounded delighted. _“Oh my God.”_

“Jesus, Jonathan,” Ivy exclaimed, her voice sounding the closest to pitying that it had been all night. “You really do have it bad, don’t you?”

He tried, somewhat hysterically, to pull his skirt back over his waist. This time vines did wrap around his arms, tying them behind his back. He squirmed, trying desperately to pull himself back up, but the tendrils binding his legs moved with him, preventing him from finding any purchase.

“It doesn’t... mean what you think,” he tried, the warm haze coating his mind preventing him from coming up with a more eloquent response. 

“Oh?” Ivy asked. She sounded distracted, and from his current vantage point Jonathan could see her feet shuffle with embarrassment. “So you _are_ aware of what it looks like.”

With his head touching dirt, Jonathan couldn’t look at what the women above him were doubtless staring at it. But he could visualize it easily enough, having put them on this morning. Silk panties, the soft orange fabric patterned with the winged forms of dozens of black bats. 

Cold fingers slipped between his skin and the edge of the left leg hole, obviously examining the black lace trim decorating the end of the fabric. He shivered, his face heating as he blushed the darkest he had all night. Another hand, slightly warmer, played with the lace at his waist, pulling experimentally at the black bow that sat directly below his navel. 

“Stop it!” Jonathan snapped. The warm hand stopped tugging at the bow, then after a pause patted the wings of the sculpted chiffon apologetically. Jonathan felt a rush of relief. Then he felt a much stronger rush of shame, as he realized he had been moved to speak out of fear that his tormentors would pull off the bat-shaped bow, his favorite part of the pair.

The vines holding his arms in place lifted him upwards, separating and moving apart until he was once more right side up, held spread eagle in front of the two women. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look up at them, though nor was he particularly in the mood to look down at his waist. He turned his head to the side, trying to control the flush in his cheeks.

“You know, Mr. J had something like this,” Harley said, the warm hands leaving Jonathan’s waist entirely. “I mean, not exactly like this. He had Batman boxers, which is... I don’t know. I assume it’s a similar principle?”

“It isn’t,” Jonathan said insistently, his head snapping in their direction. “I’m not... they’re not for...”

Neither woman looked particularly convinced. Jonathan trailed off, looking away again.

“What was it you were saying earlier, about crushes and desperation?” Ivy asked, the cold fingers too disappearing from the space between lace and skin. “I’m starting to think the pot might have it considerably worse than the kettle.”

“Ivy!” Harley scolded, and there was a bumping sound that suggested her elbow might have made contact with some part of her girlfriend’s torso. “Don’t make fun of people for having feelings.”

“Why the fuck not?” Ivy asked, obviously annoyed. “He was mocking me about five minutes ago.”

“Because I want to!” Harley said, flicking the bat-bow with a giggle. “I mean, holy shit, Doc. You are _sooooo_ whipped.”

“Shut _up,”_ Jonathan growled through gritted teeth, wrenching forward. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, but he _could_ move the rest of his body. He kneed Harley in the chin, knocking her backwards. The vines tightened in reaction, violently yanking him away from the blonde. 

Ivy snarled. “You little—!”

“Relax, Red,” Harley said, grabbing her girlfriend’s shoulder as she straightened. She rubbed her chin appreciatively, glancing at Jonathan with something uncomfortably close to sympathy. “He’s just skittish because we’re teasing him. That’s enough with the foreplay, don’t you think?”

“I’m certainly over it,” Ivy huffed, though the anger melted away from her expression as she fixed Jonathan with an intimidatingly analytical stare. He could see her pupils move ever so slightly back and forth as more and more vines crept over his body, ghosting over the most sensitive parts of his body with anatomical precision. He sucked in a breath as a tendril coiled around his chest, casually flicking his nipples until they were even harder than his...

“We should probably remove those,” Harley suggested, pointing towards where his offending member was straining against the orange silk.

Ivy tilted her head, watching carefully as a pair of vines pulled at Jonathan’s hair. He gasped as his head was tugged back, his body arching uncontrollably at the overwhelming physical stimuli. 

“I’m busy,” Ivy said without looking away. “You do it.”

Harley shrugged, moving back forward. “Don’t knee me,” she advised Jonathan, who could only keen desperately in response. Her hands hooked around the lace of the waistband, and Jonathan whimpered. 

“It’s okay,” she reassured, seeming to understand that this noise was different than the others. “Believe me, I know how expensive novelty lingerie is, I’m not going to tear it.”

Her hands were gentle as she tugged down the garment, lowering it to his knees. Despite the spike of relief he felt, somehow her care was more humiliating than if she’d just ripped them off. 

“You’re clear for landing, Red!” Harley called over her shoulder. Jonathan squirmed in embarrassment at her phrasing, and Ivy made a disgusted noise from behind her. Regardless, Jonathan could feel more tendrils winding their way around his waist.

He moaned outright when a vine wrapped around his cock, then nearly bit his tongue in his rush to cut off the sound. Ivy smirked as she teasingly massaged his length, gasps of pleasure escaping Jonathan despite his best efforts to the contrary. 

“Glad to see I’ve still got it,” Ivy said, crossing her arms over her chest with obvious satisfaction. “Been a while since I’ve done anything with dick.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Harley said cheerfully, patting Ivy on the back. “You keep at it, I’m gonna go grab something.”

“Oka— _grab something?”_ Ivy repeated, turning to Harley with disbelief. “What do you mean, grab something? I’m a fucking goddess of nature, Harls, if you want something I can...”

Harley was already gone.

“...make it with plants,” Ivy finished, annoyed. Vines tightened across Jonathan’s body, including his cock. He yelped in pain. 

Ivy flicked her wrist without pausing to glance in his direction. The tendrils loosened, and he gasped in relief. 

“Grab something,” Ivy muttered. “Please. My babies are far superior to anything that clown has in her dresser. They can stroke, suck, lube, penetrate, whip—”

She emphasized this last point with an arc of her hand through the air, which was mirrored by a vine thrashing through the air and whipping Jonathan’s backside. He almost choked on his own inhale, body rocking forward at the impact. He pulled his legs as close together as the tendrils would allow, both trying to hide the twitch of his cock in reaction and to override the instinct to spread his legs further, potentially stretching his panties.

“Oh, you liked that, huh?” Ivy said, her attention jumping back to Jonathan. He turned his face away from her, humiliation burning. He saw her wind back again in the corner of his eye, and he shivered in anticipation. 

Ivy laughed. “Just playing with you, Crane,” she said, the soft leaves of the vine reaching out to sooth his stinging ass instead. “I’m sure _that_ would be a lot to unpack, and some of us actually have plans for our Friday nights.” 

Jonathan relaxed somewhat, leaning back into the cradle of vines. He was warm all over, now, and the vine under his backside was more of a swing than another binding holding him aloft. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Ivy asked, obviously amused. Jonathan nodded before he could stop himself, moaning as one of the vines around his thighs inched closer to his entrance. It was noticeably moist, its surface secreting a sappy substance that was warm against his skin.

“Aren’t you a picture,” Ivy mused, watching as he pushed his hips down towards the encroaching tendril. “Or, you would be, if you were literally anyone else.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jonathan moaned, which was admittedly much coarser than his usual insults. Though this wasn’t exactly a usual situation for him.

“So rude,” Ivy said, and the tendril slipped back down his thigh. He managed to catch the whine of disappointment before it escaped his throat, instead raising his head to scowl at the woman in front of him.

She smiled, impassive. “I’m trying to prove a point here, Crane,” she said. “If you want something, you’re going to have to ask for it.”

“I thought you were punishing me,” Jonathan said petulantly.

“I think we both know that we’re past that,” Ivy said, taking a seat on a vine of her own and crossing her legs. She stared at him expectantly. 

Would she let him go if he asked? He got the impression that most of her anger had dissipated at this point. Also, her occasional glances in the direction that Harley had disappeared indicated that she would probably like to resume whatever their evening plans had been _before_ they’d found Jonathan strung up by her Venus Mancatcher. Which was a little insulting, given that she was the one who’d gotten Jonathan into this mess. 

“Just do it, Isley,” he said, frustrated. 

“Do what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. He groaned as more of the tendrils encircling his body crept away, leaving him feeling— somehow— even more naked. 

“Please?” he offered instead, feeling like that was already quite the concession on his part.

Ivy scoffed. “You were so willing to use your words earlier, Crane,” she said. “What happened to all that eloquence? Lost it with your dignity?”

“Please... continue,” he tried.

Ivy cocked her head. “Continue what?

Jonathan squirmed in his restraints, spreading his legs slightly and glancing up at her hopefully.

She stared at him.

 _“Fuck_ me, you sadistic leaf-brained lech,” he said, then let his head loll back in relief as the sodden tendril inched its way back up his leg. Then it paused, and he nearly screamed in frustration.

“Hmm,” Ivy mused. “Should I be making you say more things? This is kind of a rare opportunity.”

Jonathan whimpered miserably. He had been so worked up only a few moments ago, and now the lack of stimulation was near agony. “Pamela...”

She rolled her eyes. “I guess this answers who you take after,” she muttered, and before Jonathan could object she sent the tendril thrusting into his entrance.

He gasped at the intrusion, hips bucking reflexively. He’d expected the stretch to hurt, but there must have been a painkiller in either the pollen or the sap, because he could barely even feel a sting. Instead he felt full, warm, embraced, contented and—

“I’m back!” Harley called, then paused at the scene she’d returned to. Jonathan tried to compose himself, but the tendrils spread his legs wider, making room for another to join the first. He whimpered at the addition, arching his back. The larger vine started thrusting faster while the smaller curled up against his prostate, teasing it incessantly. 

“I see we’ve progressed somewhat,” she observed, glancing from Jonathan to Harley.

“Don’t look at me, Harls,” Ivy said, looking offended. “He was literally begging for it. _Such_ a little slut. You wouldn’t believe the things he said to me. He wanted me to fuck him with at least six vines, but I thought he clearly wouldn’t be able to handle more than three.”

“Three?” Jonathan gasped between thrusts, then moaned as a third vine crept in between his legs.

“Yes, only three,” Ivy said impatiently. “If you want to be such a size queen about it, you shouldn’t have kept yourself so tight. You’d think that stick you keep up your ass would have stretched you out a little, but no.”

“Oh yeah, no way that virgin hole was taking six,” Harley said, flicking one of Jonathan’s nipples with a manicured nail. He whimpered, the tendrils inside of him thrusting in unison, pushing him up into her touch. “Honestly, I’m impressed he was able to take two.”

“Well, he’s had a little chemical assistance,” Ivy pointed out. “But once that pollen wears off, believe me, he’s not sitting down for at least a week.”

“Ouch, you hear that, Doc?” Harley asked. “Guess I better get this in now,” she said, cackling as she smacked Jonathan’s ass. He cried out as the impact rocked him forward, shoving the tendrils deeper inside of him at a new angle.

“Woah,” Harley said, staring at Jonathan with wide eyes as he panted, keening and rocking his hips against the new stretch. “He really likes that, huh?”

“I’ve already been over this,” Ivy said. “We’re not getting into that, it’ll take too long.” She nodded towards the wadded up fabric in Harley’s hand. “You can try sticking whatever toy you brought in there, but unless it’s a bullet I don’t think it’s going to fit.”

“It’s not a _vibrator,”_ Harley said, rolling her eyes. She tossed the dark fabric to Ivy, then held up a small capsule between her fingers. “I thought our guest might want to play with one of his own toys.”

Ivy gaped. “Wait, you mean—?”

“Come on, pretty bird,” Harley said, leaning down over Jonathan’s head from behind. He whimpered at the unexpected praise, pushing up towards where her hand ghosted his cheek. “That’s what you like, right? Tasting your own medicine?”

He nodded, eyes closing as he moaned in assent. His hips bucked on reflex, causing Ivy to chuckle from somewhere to his right.

“Then open up, okay?” she asked, holding the capsule against his lips. He opened his mouth obediently, taking the pill-shaped container between his teeth. 

Harley covered his mouth with both of her hands, thoroughly blocking it from the air above. Jonathan inhaled through his nose, breaths short and shallow. “Now bite down,” she ordered. 

He opened his eyes, taking one last look at the uncorrupted world. Then he closed them again, breaking the capsule open as he did. The compressed airborne toxin burst from its prison, flooding Jonathan’s lungs. Harley’s hands trapped it inside of him, and he choked and writhed beneath her as it spread aggressively through his system. 

Hazily, it occurred to him that this might be his only chance to study the combined effects of his and Ivy’s formulas, and he made a mental note to pay as close attention to the differences from a normal fear toxin trip as possible. Then the tendrils working inside him stopped, slipping out from between his thighs, and suddenly the only thing he could pay attention to was the sudden and unwelcome feeling of emptiness. He whined, trying to lower himself back onto the tendrils, but the vine restraints kept him in place.

“Such a little whore,” said a distorted voice from above him. Claws traced their way down his face and neck, sending his hair standing on end as he squirmed to get away. “What would Bats think, if he saw you like this?”

Jonathan made a small, hopeless noise in the back of his throat. He squeezed his legs together in embarrassment, hoping that would convince the voice that he wasn’t what it said. But then a tendril brushed against his thigh and he spread them on instinct, desperate to be full again. He sobbed, humiliated, especially when the tendril disappeared, his mortifying display rejected.

“Shhhh,” hushed the thing from above him. “Poor pretty bird. There’s no Granny here to hurt you. She made you ashamed, didn’t she? That you’re such a degenerate little slut. Just like your Momma.” 

Jonathan nodded, sniffling. His hips bucked unconsciously, desperate for friction he wasn’t being given. Something laughed at him from his other side, opposite the voice above his head. 

“‘Mommy’s little whore,’” it echoed, chuckling. He could feel cold fingers trailing his thigh, lifting and moving away whenever he tried to push up into the touch. “I’ll have to remember that one next time he goes all ‘scarier-than-thou’ at Oswald’s.”

He whimpered, terrified at the idea of anyone seeing him like this, especially all his colleagues who frequented the Iceberg Lounge. It was already difficult to convince them to respect him, given his admittedly ridiculous costumes and tendency to end all his battles with Batman a whimpering mess on the floor. He couldn’t imagine what they’d think of him if they knew how much he enjoyed those conclusions, or what he often wore _under_ his costumes.

“Don’t tell them,” he begged, writhing in a hopeless attempt at covering himself. “Please, don’t...”

“Shhh,” the voice above him said again, claws trailing over his collarbone. Then they vanished, the quiet sound of breathing against his neck replaced by rustling fabric. After a moment the claws returned, one hand digging into each side of his face. “Open your eyes, pretty bird.”

Jonathan obeyed, eyes watering with tears as he opened them to the light. Above him was...

He cried out in fear, thrashing to get away. Above him was the Scarecrow, mask torn and ragged, staring down at him with an impossibly wide Glasgow grin. The more he struggled, the more its needle claws dug further into the skin of his face, and after a sob of stinging pain he stilled beneath it. He trembled as he stared up into its empty black eyes, waiting in terror for whatever the monster was going to do to him. 

“Put yours on,” it ordered, and for a moment Jonathan was confused before he realized it was talking to its companion at his other end. He tilted his head up, trying to get a look, but the Scarecrow immediately jerked his head back down. “Naughty slut,” it laughed, claws tracing his face with an almost fond cruelty. “No peeking.”

“It’s on,” said the thing standing between his legs, tightening its grip on his thighs. “You’re completely insane, but it’s on.”

The Scarecrow laughed. The sound seemed to hang in the air around them, becoming more and more frenzied the longer Jonathan stared up into its thread-stitched grin.

“Go ahead and look,” it encouraged, the needles on its fingers scraping his scalp as it ran them through his messy hair. “Don’t you want to see who joined us?”

Jonathan hesitated, since the last time he tried to peek he was punished, but when the claws stayed in his hair he risked a glance at what was in front of him. Terror shot through him like ice in his veins when he recognized the figure.

It was the Bat, in all his demonic glory. His tattered wings were raised above him, higher than the pointed ends of his horn-like ears, their shadow enveloping Jonathan and the Scarecrow both. Thick black claws brushed against his thighs experimentally, the creature’s fiery eyes burning with sadistic amusement.

Jonathan sobbed in earnest now, as horrified as he was humiliated. The Bat would never fear him again after seeing him like this. That was always a lingering worry after any confrontation, that his latest defeat would inoculate the Bat against the terror Jonathan tried to evoke, but the end of their dance seemed inevitable now. He’d seen Jonathan laid fully bare, the depths of his pathetic depravity held up to the light.

As if reading his mind, the Bat reached out to touch the patterned panties that had been pulled down to Jonathan’s lower thighs. His talons played with the lace trim, stroking the place between silk and skin with mocking gentleness. Jonathan whimpered, spreading his legs on instinct. It seemed an impossible hope, but maybe even if the Bat couldn’t fear him anymore, he would be willing to give Jonathan something else he wanted...

The Bat laughed, his amusement at Jonathan’s desperate invitation echoing through the dark forest. He flicked the delicate bow of Jonathan’s panties, his mirth rising in volume when he saw how the motion made the man beneath him flinch in fear. Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to escape the mockery. 

“What do you want him to do, pretty bird?” the Scarecrow asked from above him, amusement evident in its tone as well. “He can’t help you unless you use your words.”

“Please,” Jonathan begged, too aroused to stop himself despite the shame that ran through him. Did he really think he could persuade the Bat to touch him? “Please, please, _please.”_

“Please _what?”_ The Scarecrow asked, the patience in its tone combated by the vicious digging of needles against his scalp. “You do _know_ words, don’t you? I was sure you had a brain in there somewhere.”

“Please fuck me!” Jonathan cried, watering eyes opening as he stared up at the Bat in one last, desperate plea. 

The Bat stared down at him, unaffected. Jonathan sank back in defeat, shivering in anticipation of the worst. He let his eyes close once more, resolving not to open them again until the door slammed shut on his cell in Arkham.

“What do you think, Bats?” the Scarecrow asked above him. “Are you going to give the slut what he wants?”

Jonathan gasped as he was entered by something thick, wet and twisting. He immediately twisted to try and impale himself on the length further, but powerful hands on his waist held him in place. He stopped moving obediently, switching tactics to whine obscenely instead, hoping it would encourage the Bat to fuck him harder.

His strategy seemed to work, the thrusts speeding up and going deeper, slamming into Jonathan’s prostate with enough force to rock his entire body. Jonathan moaned as the Bat flipped him over, forcing him onto his hands and knees as his restraints released his wrists and ankles. 

“Open wide,” the Scarecrow said from his front, tapping his lips with a long claw. Jonathan obeyed, wondering if it was going to give him another dose of fear toxin. He nearly choked in surprise as another twisting length entered his mouth, its tip tickling the back of his throat.

He sucked on instinct, his technique sloppy from lack of practice, but desperate nonetheless to show his appreciation for the creature that had somehow convinced the Bat to touch him. It chuckled, pulling his hair back as he moaned around the thick shape in his mouth.

“I wonder how your brain is processing this?” the Scarecrow mused, a single claw tilting up his dripping chin. “I can’t imagine it makes very much sense, even to a mind as deranged as yours.”

A cold hand smacked Jonathan’s ass from behind, and he almost buckled with pleasure, pushing back eagerly into the length filling his stretched hole. The Bat was even bigger than he’d imagined, a feat which seemed nearly physically impossible. 

“Tell me,” the Scarecrow started to say, and after a moment’s pause his mouth was empty again. Jonathan whined with disappointment, saliva dripping from his chapped lips as he opened his mouth wider, hoping it would return. It laughed, relenting and putting two fingers in his mouth as a placeholder. He sucked on them gratefully, moaning with contentment.

“Such a good whore,” the Scarecrow said, its voice actually sounding impressed. “But seriously, I’m curious. Who do you really think is the Master of Fear? Me, or Bats?”

“You,” Jonathan said, his voice slightly muffled around the fingers. 

“Really?” Scarecrow said, sounding surprised. “So what’s Bats?”

The thrusting behind him slowed down, like it was waiting for his answer, and Jonathan whimpered in disappointment. “The King!” he moaned, desperate to be fucked harder. “The King of Fear!”

The Scarecrow laughed, removing its fingers to be quickly replaced by the writhing length Jonathan had been worshiping before. Behind him, the thrusting sped up, at first matching its pace before and then exceeding it. Jonathan could no longer tell if the Scarecrow was talking to him. He was completely lost to fear and pleasure, moaning brokenly as his alter ego took his front while his Dark Knight claimed him from behind.

He came with a cry, sobbing in ecstasy around the length in his mouth. The thrusting continued as he went boneless, rocking him back and forth while he whimpered at the over-stimulation. Eventually both lengths left him, leaving him to crumple in a heap on the ground. The dark haze clouding his mind ebbed away slightly in the peaceful pleasure of the afterglow. As he squirmed in contentment, the distorted voices chatting above him became more human in tone.

“Can we resume date night now?” asked a woman— Ivy, he dizzily recognized— who sounded slightly petulant with boredom.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Harley replied, stepping over Jonathan to embrace her companion.

“Uh-uh,” Ivy said, pushing Harley back. “Absolutely not. If you touch me while you’re wearing that thing, I am actually going to vomit.”

Harley giggled. “Oh, right,” she said, and Jonathan felt the soft weight of his mask fall on his chest. “That’s fair, it’s actually really sweaty in there.”

She leaned over Jonathan again, and this time Ivy accepted the affection. “You definitely need to exfoliate tonight,” Ivy added, her voice muffled from where she’d sunk her face in Harley’s blonde hair. 

“For sure,” Harley said, then caught Ivy’s hand as it went to her own mask. “Hmm. Can you leave that on, actually?”

Ivy stepped backwards, though she left the cowl on. “...Why?” she asked cautiously. 

“I bet you’d look like Batwoman if we cut a hole in the back for your hair,” Harley suggested.

Another mask dropped onto Jonathan’s chest. He shifted, his toxin-addled brain trying to process the existence of the discarded cowl. He stroked the dark fabric experimentally, confused. 

_“Now_ who’s the whore?” Ivy groused, though there was a fond amusement to her tone that made the insult sound different than how she’d said it before.

“Only for you,” Harley said sweetly, leaning in for a kiss. Jonathan watched the earnest display of affection with blurry eyes, the reality of what had happened starting to sink in.

Harley leaned back. “And maybe Batwoman,” she added, smirking, before pressing another kiss to Ivy’s cheek. 

Ivy hummed, running her fingers through Harley’s hair. “The next time I see that flying vermin, I’m throwing her through a wall.”

“Hot,” Harley observed. “Shall we adjourn to the rose garden?”

Ivy glanced down at Jonathan. “Shouldn’t we do something about our guest?”

Harley shrugged. “He let himself in,” she said. “I’m sure he can let himself out.”

“I suppose,” Ivy said. “Hey, why don’t you go grab the—”

“From the fridge?” Harley asked, kissing Ivy on the nose. “Can do. I’ll meet ya there.” She danced away, humming in rhythm with her spinning pirouettes. “Bye Doc!” she called over her shoulder, cartwheeling through a gap between trees and disappearing from sight. 

Ivy waited until her partner was fully gone before kneeling down next to Jonathan. “Can you open your eyes wider for me?” she asked. 

Jonathan blinked. He’d been expecting a threat, or maybe just more mockery, but her tone was surprisingly clinical. He obliged her, and she leaned in close to examine his pupils. A snap of her fingers parted the cover of leaves above them, and Jonathan struggled not to squint at the sudden bright light of the greenhouse overhead lights.

“Do you know the dosage and main components of the strain that Harley fed you?” Ivy asked, moving her finger back and forth in front of his eyes.

“Um,” he said, following the motion of her finger with confusion. “...Toxin?”

“I’ll just email you later,” Ivy muttered, then held out her hand. A green stalk rose from the ground, the bloom at the end blossoming into a white flower with wide petals. She peeled a petal away from the outside, then tapped a finger against Jonathan’s lips. 

He opened his mouth obediently, still too hazy to protest the intrusion. She swabbed the petal against the inside of his cheek, then leaned back, dropping it into the center of the flower. The blossom closed around the sample, and Jonathan watched drowsily as the stalk sunk back into the ground. 

Jonathan wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he turned back to Ivy, who was staring at him with something uncomfortably akin to pity. 

“Could you... raise your hips?” she asked, sounding less confident in this request. He did as she asked anyway, wincing a bit at the ache of moving that part of his body.

Ivy pulled his panties back up to his waist, careful not to tear the lace. “The pollen’s probably wearing off,” she said as he lowered himself back down, a whimper escaping his lips as his sore backside made fresh contact with the ground. “I’d recommend ibuprofen over Tylenol, until you're sure the pollen’s out of your system,” she suggested. “Tylenol can... interact with it strangely, sometimes.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t actually sure if he had either brand in his hideout. Ivy frowned, worrying her lip, then sighed. Another raise of her hand had a second flower shoot out of the ground, though this one Jonathan was pretty sure he recognized.

“My strain of Ololiuqui,” Ivy said, tucking it behind the elastic of one of his panty legs. “I suppose you earned it, somewhere in all that.”

Then she stood up, brushing herself off. Jonathan thought he could feel the ground beneath him grow softer as she rose, but he might have been imagining it.

“Next time, Crane?” she said, glancing over her shoulder as she followed Harley’s path out of the clearing. “Just ask.”

The sound of her footsteps faded away, and Jonathan let his eyes close, just for a moment. He was exhausted, and Ivy hadn’t really given him a time limit for how quickly he needed to leave. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the black fabric of the cowl on his chest.

Then he fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Made a second account to post this, since people I know IRL are subscribed to my main AO3 account and I have to actually be able to look them in the eyes every day. Although if you've read any of my other harlivy or scarebat fics, I'm guessing figuring out my main isn't that complicated, especially given my lack of originality with account names.
> 
> Anyway, sources: Jonathan really does refer to Batman as the "King of Fear" in canon. Most notably in Batman #524, where he says it on begging on his knees and everything (Bruce also bridal carries Jonathan at the end, so fun times all around). This is also one of many comics where Jonathan refers to his high school bullies as "big, handsome jocks," which I always considered a bizarrely horny way to repeatedly refer to the people who ruined your childhood. I assume this turn of phrase probably comes up regularly in his therapy, which is why Harley knows it to toss it back at him. Jonathan's childhood with Granny Keeny and his teen mom is from Scarecrow: Year One, from the same Post-Crisis, Pre-New 52 continuity.


End file.
